


That Feeling

by Scriptophilia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 03:30:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13379196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scriptophilia/pseuds/Scriptophilia
Summary: Sherlock's appearance has nothing on the feeling he gives John, never in a million years. John's heart would soar higher than any bird, beat faster than any deer could run, and do more flips than a gymnast. It is infuriating and irresistible all at the same time.





	That Feeling

**Author's Note:**

> Criticism is welcome! I would love any tips.

John Watson was not in love with Sherlock Holmes, per se. In his opinion, there was a difference between being attracted to looks and personality compared to feeling. The feeling that came with the slightest touch, subtle look, or movement. The one that was far superior to any he had ever experienced before. That is not to say that John _didn't_ like those things about his flatmate. He liked them very, very much, to put it lightly. Sherlock's high, knife-sharp cheekbones, piercing blue eyes and curly mop of dark hair made John weak in the knees. He was striking, and John might even go so far as to say "devilishly handsome" or some clichéd statement. "Don't say that. It's overused, and it makes you sound like you're in one of those ridiculous films single women in their forties watch," Sherlock would say. John would figure him to be right, as he always was, but not change his mind. Despite all of these things, Sherlock's personality still needed quite a bit of work.

 

Simply put, he loved to be around his best friend. His partner. Hearing Sherlock compliment him, whether offhanded or intentional, was sweeter than the sounds of the violin Sherlock played. Seeing Sherlock smile, as rare as the sight may be, sent John headfirst into a downward spiral of yearning for more approval. To be deemed acceptable in the scrutinous and unrelenting eyes of a man such as this? Well, John would think, that was the only praise he'd need for the next rest of his life.

 

At times, when John was sitting in the worn and faded armchair near the fireplace reading the day's paper, Sherlock would place a hand on his shoulder as he passed. Nothing more, nothing less. Just a simple, and probably platonic, touch. Yet, John's heart soared higher than any bird, beat faster than any deer could run, and did more flips than a gymnast. The butterflies, who seemed to permanently reside in his stomach at this point, awoke from their slumber and swarmed, making the owner of their home quite flustered. But, the one thing that really did him in was when his name passed through Sherlock's lips.

 

To John, it was the most delicious sound he'd ever heard. Be it inquisitive, a shout, or even a whisper, John reveled in the tenderness of the tone. It was thoughts like these, of Sherlock, that kept John awake at night and distracted during the day. John had Sherlock on his mind yet again when the subject of his thought, the man himself, flung the door of their flat open with such intensity that the skull on their mantel rolled off and somewhere into the kitchen.

 

"Come along, John, we have work to do." Sherlock was breathless, red in the face, windblown, and obviously high on the euphoria from working a case. The corner of a nicotine patch could be seen peeking out from under his shirt sleeve. He must have caught John staring at the patch, because he clapped his hand over it.

 

"It's only a one patch problem this time," he said, almost dejectedly. "But still, it could be promising. We do need to go later, I would rather like to see if I'm right after the autopsy." John rolled his eyes, but flushed pink from embarrassment at being caught staring. He rubbed his cheeks with the heels of his hands to chase away the offending hue.

 

"What happened, then?" Sherlock perked up considerably at John's question.

 

"Woman shot dead in a utility closet locked from the inside. I wager it wasn't her own doing, seeing as she was wearing gloves and the fingerprints on the .22 weren't hers. She had an odd tattoo behind her ear, however. I would very much like to find out if that's connected to anyone, like the Black Lotus that time. I also took fingerprints from the gun. I doubt Anderson will have them done in the next millennia, anyhow. What an incompetent imbecile. Who hired him, anyway?"

 

John shook his head, laughing a bit. "Not sure. When are we leaving? He was cut off, because Sherlock had already left. He poked his head around the door frame as John was pulling on his coat.

 

"Now."

 

"Now you wait just one second. You can't just say th-" John cried, albeit in vain. He took off down the stairs, stumbling several times on the way down. He burst through the door Sherlock had left open, only to discover that Sherlock had broken into a run. John sighed deeply and swore to himself before taking off down the street after the taller man towards Scotland Yard.

 

Once John had caught up, they were already there. The pair stood in front of the building. Sherlock was wrapped up in a conversation with Lestrade and the ever-unpleasant Anderson. John, on the other hand, hadn't a clue what the other two men had said, Or were saying, for that matter. He was too focused on how Sherlock's mind had visibly begun to work. Anyone who wasn't blind could see the gears turning. His eyes flitted around, he couldn't keep his hands still. His leg would bounce. It was these signs that told John that Sherlock would burst at the seams if he couldn't dive headfirst into the case. Soon enough, deductions were spilling from his lips at a kilometer a minute.

 

John heard a brief, "We'll be off now, goodbye" before a larger hand engulfed his, and its owner was, once again, making a mad dash for whatever had him so fascinated. John's heart pounded when he realized who the hand was connected to, but he had no time to think. The duo were rushing through the streets of London, sprinting past tourists, weaving through pedestrians, and dashing between cars.

 

Perhaps it was the fact that they hadn't been on a case in a while, and that John was simply caught up in the adrenaline rush. Perhaps it was that Sherlock looked so alive, so elated, so thrilled, so free when he worked cases that John got so swept up in the riptide of his emotions that he couldn't hold it back anymore.

 

"I love you, Sherlock," he yelled over the din of the bustling city. He feared the worst when the other end of his confession stopped and whirled around, scarf and coat swaying, two swatches of color high on his cheeks.

 

"I love you, too."

 

And they were off again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I decided I would just flip through my notebook of fanfiction and pick one. Turns out it was Johnlock. Lmao oops.


End file.
